Come As You Are
by LaSuen
Summary: AU. They meet a long time ago when one of them hasn't yet graduated from university and the other is far from being on the side of the angels. One-shot. Sherlock/John. Slash.


**Title**: Come as you are

**Author**: eliah-jan

**Translator**: LaSuen

**Beta**: blackorchestrafreak

**Pairing**: John/Sherlock

**Rating**: PG-13

**Genre**: AU, drama

**Disclaimer**: We do not own anything.

**Summary**: They meet a long time ago when one of them hasn't yet graduated from university and the other is far from being on the side of the angels.

**T/N**: I'm hugely grateful to wonderful eliah-jan for permitting me to translate this beautiful story. I also send a lot of thanks to my beta blackorchestrafreak.

Reviews are most welcome! Come on, make three people happy ;)

# # #

_"Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend. As an old memoria"_

_Nirvana, "Come as you are"_

# # #

At the crack of dawn, a few minutes to six o'clock, John strolls around Hyde Park in measured steps. Insomnia keeps him awake for days at a time as is always the case during this time of year. He has spent all night working on an essay, and now he makes his way towards the lake and his favourite spot under a linden tree where at such an ungodly hour – he knows for sure – no one will be around. He likes coming there; the atmosphere is quiet and serene. There are ducks, storks, and gulls. The air has a touch of chill to it.

John keeps a thermos filled with hot coffee in his backpack. Keeping a light grip on his bicycle handlebars, he pushes his bike along as he walks. He has a few hours of rest before his lectures, just enough time to sort out the chaos in his mind induced by hard studying. Sometimes he does his homework, finishes his essays, or learns manuals at the lake. Sometimes he watches people jog in the park or walk their dogs around.

Sometimes he just sits there in quiet.

John long since considers the spot his own; he's left there a lot of thoughts and a few heart secrets, too. It's his own private place, which is why he is rather perplexed to discover his favourite spot already occupied.

At six in the morning.

Occupied. By someone.

That has never happened before. At first John is extremely annoyed, an exasperated feeling that overlaps with weariness and a heavily throbbing head. He has the impulse to drive away the young man who made himself at home right under his tree. He wants to come up and pierce him with his glare until he gives up and leaves.

On second thought, though, he doesn't. He convinces himself it's not really that big a deal. So the young man came and occupied his spot; well then, in this case he will settle for some place else, a bit further. The next moment he already steers his bicycle as he walks along the same path. He wants to take a proper look at the psycho who, just like him, decided to get himself frostbitten at such an early hour on a freezing day of February.

While he approaches the blurry silhouette, he makes out a bundle of curly-haired head in a ridiculous bag-like hat, glasses, bended legs, shaggy jacket and a laptop that throws a blue reflection on the man's face. Nothing to write home about, although it's not like John has been expecting anything extraordinary. Just a random bloke. Working, apparently.

Almost passing him by, John is just about to endeavour a sidelong glance at the man when he hears a low voice saying in his wake:

"Laptop."

Startled, John lingers on.

"Excuse me?"

"Lend me your laptop."

John is at a loss. Nervously, he fiddles with a strap of his backpack, his other hand having a hold of his bicycle handlebar.

"Why would you even suppose I have one?"

His fingers flitting across the keyboard, the young man takes a moment to stare John in the face, not ceasing his typing. Just for a flash of a moment he maintains the eye contact, then lowers his eyes, almost gluing himself to the screen again.

"Student, fifth year, medicine, Bart's; been writing an essay all night, looking for a freelance job and a flatmate, your backpack's heavy, not with books though – of course you have a laptop."

John's mouth is agape. He slams it shut. Then he exhales.

"Oh my god."

He earns another cursory glimpse, this time slightly amused.

"Why do you need it?" inquires John.

"Out of charge," the bloke explains briskly. "I have to finish something; it'll take ten minutes, tops. My charge is down in four."

"Oh. Alright then."

Leaning his bicycle against the linden tree and taking his backpack off, John can't wrap his mind around as to why he is complying at all. From an outsider's viewpoint it is plain silly since the park is deserted, he has electronics on him and his wallet. Yet the young man in front of him has such an otherworldly air that he seems hardly dangerous. His kind doesn't steal. If they play dirty tricks on people, they do it without much talking and in a different way. Besides, that incredible analysis he did…

He caught John's interest, anyway.

The bloke grabs the outstretched laptop without as much as sparing a glance at John and completely ignores his "There's no password". He plugs his modem into the port and promptly summons the command line, simultaneously checking with the screen of his own computer.

John shifts closer and watches in rapt attention as the customary interface transforms into laconic black windows with software codes.

The other laptop's display emits a warning peep and powers out shortly after, making the man swear under his breath.

"Look, what are you—"

"Wait a moment," the man waves him off, interjecting in a brusque manner. "Six minutes."

For a few seconds John ponders over his words before sitting beside him confidently and peeking at the screen over the man's shoulder. It is strewn with pages of numbers and letters, windows flickering and disappearing just as fast, on which John barely has time to register the recurring message "Access denied". He starts to think there's something off about the whole deal.

"Hey," John calls to him. "What are you doing?"

Still typing in a furious fashion, the bloke quirks the corner of his mouth up a little and answers, succinctly:

"Hacking a bank account."

"What?!" exclaims John, not believing his own ears and taken completely aback. He makes an attempt to snatch his laptop back, but the young man casts his hand away, turning to explain in a calm voice:

"Stop it; I'm being paid for this. I hack security systems and check their reliability."

John doesn't buy a word of it and thinks he is in for a serious trouble. The uneven glow of the breaking dawn and glimmering screen illuminate only the half of the stranger's face, throwing specks of light on his glasses. It creates an optic illusion making one of his eyes look bright grey, almost blue, while the other one seems downright black. His gaze is that of a giant lizard, unblinking and inexpressive.

John is thinking hard of what to do next: there's no reason to take his laptop back now since the breach into the system has already proven successful. Does it mean he has to bid his laptop goodbye? What does he do next? Does he chuck it away in a scrapyard after making sure the hard drive is formatted? Should he go to the police to claim it stolen? John doesn't have the faintest idea how tracking procedures of cyber criminals work, yet he has a strong suspicion that it's quite possible to track the source.

All these thoughts race past his mind in a matter of seconds, but get interrupted by an irritated hush:

"You're thinking too loud. It distracts me."

"Pardon me?" exclaims John, slightly affronted. "Who do you think you are—"

John doesn't know what would've happened next, had he finished his sentence. Maybe he would've stood up and got his bloody laptop back. Maybe he would've got it back and beaten the hacker's face up. Maybe he would've done something else.

He doesn't have time to.

The screen blooms with the block of popping up windows, the major of which announcing "Access granted". The young man slumps back against the tree trunk, his taut shoulders releasing the pent-up tension. Stretching out his unflatteringly long, disproportionate legs, he tosses the laptop back to John with one hand, his other tugging the pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his dirty jacket. With an abrupt movement, he lights it on and sends a wreath of smoke right into John's face. Without waiting for an obvious question to come, he stares mockingly at John's expression and knocks him out with a pile of facts, the tone of his voice going at a leisurely pace:

"First of all, don't get so worked up about it – your precious laptop is untraceable, even if someone makes it his agenda. I have a dynamic, continually changing IP, and I use the best hiding software, too. Secondly, I, in fact, have a client. Do you know Lord St. Simon?" The young man takes a deep puff at his cigarette, the burning tip of it lighting his angular features for a blink of a moment. John nods, automatically, although his reaction is not really needed. "I'm working for him. He suspects someone's trying to hack into his bank account, so he hired me to make sure his bank's computer systems are secure."

Sniffing at his own thoughts, he continues:

"I told him I was capable of hacking into any system, and if I am able to do that, so is anyone else, provided they had brains and all. He didn't believe me." A self-satisfied smile radiates on his face. "Thus, at the very moment I broke into his account he received a due notification, while I was awarded with a considerable amount of money. Only he is still an idiot – he has not the foggiest idea his own wife squanders his money away with her American lover."

"What— How did you—" Short of words, John is trying to regain his bearings, inundated by the stream of information. The story of St. Simon's marriage and the fact that he practically doted on his new wife, indulging in her every whim, hit hard newspaper headlines, accumulating new details as it went.

"It is obvious," he answers, discarding the fag and igniting his second cigarette, while John does his best putting two and two together. The man is wearing old, ragged clothes, new trainers and brand-name glasses. He has a MacBook. Also, he has a cigarette pack that is way too expensive to buy on a regular basis.

Doesn't add up.

"Brought his wife to our appointment; she was wearing jewels. She had the most common set of gems for her outfit that were simple enough but incompatible with her dress. They must have been a present from a man, but not for a specific occasion. A woman of her class would never buy anything like that, and the lord has the most disgusting taste, thanks to the newspapers for the nitty-gritty. The gems are of special design, hand-made, have their own style. A peculiar tinge of gold, made in States. Taking into consideration the lineage of Lady St. Simon, it's logical to assume the man at issue is an American. To sum it all up: an American lover, not wealthy enough to make luxurious presents, yet smart to the extent of playing on her sense of exclusivity."

Finished, the young man smirks a winning grin. Suddenly John realises his computer is still buzzing on his lap. Slamming the cover shut, he thinks he must have been too liberal with his coffee and too scarce with his sleep. This strange man is a homeless-looking hacker with expensive things, whose clients are lords and who has a penchant for identifying a passerby's profession and the nature of their backpack belongings.

"Blimey," John mutters in a low voice.

"Sorry?" The man fixates him with an attentive gaze.

"Blimey, I said," John repeats, a little disconcerted. By that point, he doesn't understand anything. "Listen, you are insane, aren't you?"

"Nope," he drawls. "I'm Sherlock."

He offers his hand.

"It's John." John shakes it. The cigarette smoke, hovering around him in a haze, smells of surrealism. "Is it a diagnosis or a name?"

"Both, I think."

Silence hangs in the air while Sherlock smokes (A chain smoker, John scrawls a mental note). Then Sherlock asks:

"You need a flatmate, right?"

"Yes," says John. "But—"

He is cut off mid-word:

"I have money now. Suffice to rent a few flats, even."

"Why don't you rent it on your own then?" John asks, his forehead creased.

"Boring." Sherlock stretches his limbs, hurling a demonstrative look in John's backpack's direction. "You have coffee there."

"Don't even think," John shakes his head. "I have yet my lectures to live through."

After a moment's thought he decides to clarify:

"Where did you even come from? I'm not going to share my flat with some junkie or a lunatic. You're not homeless, your things are too expensive. Well, apart from the clothes. Also your hands. You have the hands of a person who never held anything but laptop in his life."

Sherlock's stare is virtually approving.

"The clothes are not mine."

"Whose then?"

"Borrowed."

"Borrowed? As in stolen?"

"Quite so," confirms Sherlock.

"What for?"

"To not attract unwanted attention. And it was easier to leave home that way."

"Why did you leave home in the first place?" asks John.

Sherlock shrugs.

"Got fed up."

At first John wants to say it's not really an answer, but then he recalls his own folks and thinks the better of it. The answer is just about exhaustive.

John takes a minute to consider. On one hand, he really needs a flatmate and is already losing hope of finding anyone adequate. By that time all of his normal classmates have provided themselves with rooms in the university hostel or lived with their girlfriends. John didn't feel like trying to find a flatmate outside of his classmates. On the other hand, letting someone basically from the streets into his flat, a stranger… But there was something else in Sherlock, suggesting that, albeit a potential psychopath, he will be a quiet one at that. He will sit by himself, becoming one with his computer for days in a row, not causing any real trouble.

"Do you have bad habits?" asks John.

Sherlock smirks.

"Smoking, as you see," he says. "Sometimes I don't talk for days. I also play the violin. Any problems with that?"

"I have a clarinet myself," John confesses.

"Deal, now?"

Weighing the pros and cons, John finally comes to the conclusion that the quota of stupid decisions made during the period of twenty five years is still unfulfilled.

"Five hundred pounds per month plus food and a month of probation. You pay forward, otherwise I'm throwing you out of the house at once."

"Deal. The address?"

John dictates the address and adds:

"Come after six."

"Excellent."

Sherlock stands up on his feet, brushing off the dirt, picks his bag up from the ground, the laptop carefully tucked under his arm, and stalks off. John unscrews the lid on his coffee thermos, stretches on the grass, a feeling of relief flooding over him, and watches the park gradually fill up with people.

# # #

When the doorbell rings at six, John is in the middle of the living room, a pile of clothes scooped up in his hands, and he has no idea where to stow them, lest they be conspicuous at a first glance. In the end, he stuffs the entire bundle of it into the wardrobe and heads for the door. Sherlock enters the flat as though he owns the place, hanging his jacket onto the hook next to the door in a flippant gesture and putting his sports bag nearby. Without taking off his shoes, he saunters straight into the living room.

Unexpectedly, John thinks he likes that; he has never been big on all those never-ending red formalities and obsequious curtsies, questions like "If you'll excuse me?", but for appearances sake he still casts:

"Shuck your shoes off."

Sherlock darts an eloquent squint at John's feet clad in trainers, and makes no movement in response.

One to one. Tied.

"So," says John. "This flat has only one bedroom, which means you're going to sleep on the sofa in the living room – it unfolds."

"I hate sofas," murmurs Sherlock, but John only shrugs it off.

"Can't help. There's only one bed and it's mine. The sofa is comfortable; it will grow on you. Here," he proceeds further through the flat, "there's the kitchen. Food, as I said, we split."

"No problem there," Sherlock says, dismissively. "I hardly eat."

"But you do eat?"

"Just a tad."

John ventures a better look at Sherlock, who already nestled in the cozy depths of the armchair. Without his puffer jacket and a hat, he looks smaller: two scrawny arms with pointed elbows jutting out of his saggy, apparently somebody else's t-shirt; a mop of wild black curls resembling an overgrown mane in Allen Ginsberg's style.

"It shows," says John with a sigh. "What's your full name? Got any documents?"

Holding out his passport, Sherlock lets him see his full name. Sherlock Holmes. 'I'm going to look him up on Facebook', a thought flashes across John's mind.

"No."

John looks up at him.

"Sorry, what?"

"No," repeats Sherlock.

"I didn't say anything."

"You've been thinking it."

"Oh yes, of course." John writes down his passport data, then tosses the document back to its owner. "And what have I been thinking about?"

"Searching me out in social networking websites won't work."

"But how did you—" babbles John, stupefied, knowing his face looks positively imbecilic but unable to keep reins on his admiration.

"Elementary. It is now the first thing on anyone's mind upon meeting a new person. The idea that a Facebook profile, where, by the way, you can write just about anything, is as reliable as a person's own reactions is nonsense."

"But it can help to know about some of their interests or hobbies which may or may not come up in a conversation."

"It says nothing about a person."

"How come? Then what does?" asks John, surprised.

"Gestures. Gait. Facial expressions. Clothes. Accessories."

"That is, details alone?"

"Yes."

"Well," John says in a drawl. "Doesn't sound convincing."

"Want me to prove it?" offers Sherlock with a crooked smile.

"Hit me."

Leaning back in his chair, Sherlock places the tips of his fingers together in the shape of a steeple. His face immoderately smug, he starts talking:

"Let's see. First of all, you began looking for a flatmate because of the break up with your girlfriend. It was a long term relationship, more than a year together, probably one and a half. The break-up was quite recent – you still have a woman's key ring lying on your lamp table. It's pushed in the background shadow, but not entirely put away, because you still hoped she'd come back. The relationship was long and serious; perhaps you were going to propose. She even brought her cat in here – distinctive scratches on the furniture and traces of fur still visible on both carpet and sofa speak for themselves. You make a more frequent use of the chair, so it's clean. Why did you break up? It wasn't you. You are the role model of an ideal boyfriend: you keep the place in order, you never cheat. Stands to reason she felt bored and met somebody else."

"Oh. My. God." Being read like an open book leaves John completely at a loss. "But how— how?! I get the sofa and the cat – it's noticeable, but Liza? How did you—?" John knows perfectly well his bewilderment is only going to enhance Sherlock's feeling of self-importance, but he fails to contain himself.

Sherlock doesn't disappoint him. Even his glasses seem to acquire a winning twinkle as he continues:

"Laptop. You don't have a password and, apparently, you never had. You've been living with your girlfriend, so it means you had nothing to hide. You're diligent, you clean often: your flat has only a one-day layer of dust, all things are at their right place – you find them without really looking. There's no street dirt in the hall, which means you're used to cleaning and cooking. You have lots of things, but they're not neglected. Sometimes you let yourself leave a mess, but you tidy it regularly. You're assiduous – your books are lying open on the desk, even though it's a long haul before your end of the year exams. Books are not covered with dust, you use bookmarks and stickers, and you treat things with respect. Shall I go on?"

John lets out a breath he involuntarily held in.

"No. That was amazing."

"Excuse me?" asks Sherlock, looking mildly perplexed.

"You convinced me. Honestly, you win. Details can, indeed, help make out a person."

"Glad to hear it." Sherlock relaxes his fingers, unlocking the triangle of the roof they has made.

"Tell me one thing, though," John lingers, leaving an expressive pause. "Are you always showing off like that?"

The question makes Sherlock burst out in a short laugh.

"Always."

Sending a smile in return, John heads for the kitchen, asking on his way:

"Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Coffee, rather," answers Sherlock at his back.

"We're out of coffee. You'll take tea."

Two to two. Tied at two.

# # #

The first couple of days are spent getting used to each other, cautiously and gradually. For the most part of it John is silent and self-conscious about his possessions and valuable things, while Sherlock is busy multiplying fags in the ashtray by his computer. He rarely moves and hardly ever eats, and John doesn't really know which approach is better to take.

"You're going to get yourself a lung cancer," he says eventually one day. "And your larynx. And ischemia."

"Hm?" Sherlock asks, looking at him in confusion.

"Your smoking," clarifies John. "You're smoking too much."

"Oh yes," Sherlock's voice practically drips with sarcasm. "Dying young."

"Just like Kurt Cobain," says John, his lips pulled into a smile.

"Who is that?"

"Are you serious? You really don't know?"

"Should I?"

"Well, it's Kurt Cobain. The legend of rock music? The band called Nirvana? Does it really not ring a bell?"

Sherlock just shrugs.

"Not interested. It's useless information."

"It's called erudition."

"It's called rubbish."

"And you think any information should be exclusively useful?"

"Yes. That's what it's for. Otherwise it makes no sense."

John shakes his head.

"This," he continues, "is music. It's not any worse than your Vivaldi. It's just different."

Sherlock turns away, the back of his head speaking for himself, eloquently expressing his attitude to "Nirvana".

John is not giving up, though.

"I'm going to show you." He gets up to fetch his laptop.

However strange it seems, it's after that evening when they really start talking.

# # #

The next morning John opens the fridge and finds the interior empty, void of yesterday's provisions.

He doesn't find there anything even hypothetically edible or otherwise reminiscent of food. Not a carrot. Tucked away in the nook of a freezer there sits, in a forlorn solitude, a single brick of butter.

Making a mental note in his mind to tell Sherlock that consuming all comestibles in the house is not a neighbourly gesture, John strides resolutely into the living room, the sight of which roots him to the spot.

Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, his glasses still on. Curled up in a fetal position, he hugs his laptop to his chest. There's a full ashtray next to him on the floor, a few empty plates flanking it from both sides.

It is the first time John ever walks in on Sherlock sleeping, and he thinks it's the very first occasion for the last three days. He wonders how it's even physically possible to fit onto this sofa in a horizontal position, let alone with those legs.

Asleep, Sherlock is even more compact, huddled up so skillfully he would fit in a box. His face is no longer murderously serious, no longer tense and concentrated. His features are ever so slender and thin.

John shakes his head. He thinks twice about giving Sherlock a piece of his mind, simply cleaning away the dishes along with the ashtray. Before leaving, he scribbles down a note: "You owe me 20 pounds for groceries or next time I'm putting a lock on the fridge".

Upon John's return, Sherlock has already woken up and is typing away on his laptop, his back not giving off any kind of remorse. There's a twenty pound banknote pinned on John's warning with an inscription in black highlighter "Got it".

# # #

"Listen, what do you do when you don't have clients?" asks John one day.

He asks out of curiosity, for their joint residence runs in the same scenario: John returns from his lectures, makes himself a snack and settles in the living room to study. He likes not being alone when he does his homework – it helps to concentrate more. Besides, he likes the presence of someone else in the flat, even though this someone else spends day and night glued to his computer and doesn't often engage in conversation. Sometimes, though, Sherlock goes out, but it happens not more than two days a week, and John has no clue where to. Maybe just for a walk, maybe on business. John doesn't inquire, and Sherlock doesn't share anything; for him it's a child's play to determine what John's been up to just by shooting a quick, perfunctory look at him.

But John likes the feeling of someone's just being there. He likes that there's a misty, dove-coloured smoke from Sherlock's cigarettes permeating the air. He likes there's someone who doesn't expect anything from him, doesn't ask for anything. He just likes to have someone there.

It's a rare occasion for Sherlock to say hello. Normally, he doesn't even notice John coming back, but as soon as John makes his appearance evident enough, Sherlock can't resist talking, explaining or complaining. Often it's connected with his line of work, and his thoughts and conclusions are so paradoxical and puzzling that they always get John to listen in fascinated awe.

In moments like this Sherlock spins in his rotating chair, slumping against its back, crosses his arms and starts talking. Then, in the heat of the inspiration, he jumps off the chair, paces around the room, flailing his hands and dispersing the smoke with sharp movements. He swears profusely, hurling acrid remarks at the room.

His shirts hang loose on him; his head is filled with an outstanding profusion of facts and hypotheses, in a chaotic, rather disordered manner: code systems, history, ballistics, gemology, biochemistry, forensic sciences.

John can never guess what is going to come to surface next. This perpetuum mobile has only started to gain momentum, and John likes it, unexpectedly. It brings a certain random variable in his life. At the same time, Sherlock's variability is so invariable it makes John eager to be home for the evening.

"So what do you do in your spare time?" John asks again. John still doesn't know a great deal about his flatmate and wants to create at least some sort of opinion apart from 'amazing', obviously.

Sherlock gives him a wry smile. It's this rare occurrence when he makes himself comfortable on the sofa rather than at the desk. He has his computer on his lap, and passing him by, John flicks a glimpse at the screen. A forum of some kind.

"I do the same thing I do for work. Breaking into systems. Only for fun."

"Oh gosh. Are you serious?"

"Quite so."

"What sort of systems?" asks John, a bit apprehensive. He can already sense the oncoming answer.

Sherlock's grin acquires an almost sarcastic tinge.

"Governmental. Scotland Yard. Bank of England. Revenue and Customs." His voice rings with a distinct note of pride.

John sits down in the armchair, heaving a lugubrious sigh. He knew. He suspected the commonplace would be a fat chance when it comes to Sherlock.

"You're telling me I'm covering a criminal," he summarises.

"It would appear so," Sherlock's nods, calmness incarnate.

"I could call the police," says John, though his voice sounds more like a matter-of-fact statement than an actual threat.

"You could," agrees Sherlock, utterly unperturbed.

"And? You're not going to argue, find an excuse?"

"No. From your viewpoint you're right. What I do is against the law. But even if you call the police, they're not going to find anything. I don't abuse the information I gain access to. I'm just bored. As soon as I hack into a website, I lose interest. Almost always, I send them a letter indicating a loophole I found."

"What for?" asks John in wonderment.

"For the same reason. Bored. As soon as they fix it, I can try again. They know about me. They know I'm there. In certain circles they all know my name."

"Which name do you use? Certainly, not the real one."

"Obviously," Sherlock shakes his head. "I have a nickname."

John knits his brow in question, and Sherlock adds:

"Consultant."

"Has a dramatic edge to it," comments John.

"It does," Sherlock agrees. "But people like it. They need a certain amount of pathos. If you put yourself on a lower scale, no one will go after you. I'm known as a universal solution to a problem no one else can step up to. I'm not working with criminals."

John gives him an attentive look at an attempt to figure out if he's telling the truth. Sherlock is serious. He's not outraged, he's not agitated. He's calm when he explains everything. He's not trying to make excuses.

"Well? Calling the police?"

"I'll think about it," says John as he leaves the room.

He has not the slightest clue what to make of it, apart from Sherlock not looking like a criminal.

Apart from, that for some reason he believes him.

# # #

The day Sherlock's month of probation as John's flatmate expires, John comes back home late, well after midnight. He's been spending time with his friends in the pub in Camden, where in between excessively loud music compositions he told them about his new weird flatmate, which made him feel a little bit better. It turned out that in his version of reality Sherlock's share of eccentricity was slightly cut down on, transforming him into someone just moderately whimsical – lacking self-control and normalcy, but overall a sane neighbour. Especially, as compared with a certain lot his friends had the displeasure to share a room with.

Later on, shuffling across the threshold of his flat, John thinks he is going to tell Sherlock that, even though he's a madman of sorts, he strikes quite a decent flatmate so he might as well stay. Unusually, he doesn't find Sherlock on his customary spot on the sofa. There's not a soul in the kitchen and not a sound behind the bathroom door. John shrugs his shoulders, presuming it's not a crime to disappear on a Friday night, even if for the past week Sherlock has never even left the building.

Yet Sherlock is found soon enough. In _his_ bed. Under _his_ covers. He takes in the whole scene as soon as he steps into his bedroom.

Sherlock is profoundly asleep. He hears neither John walking in nor his flatmate's ostentatiously loud demeanour. Only as John perches on the brink of the bed, gingerly tapping Sherlock on the shoulder, does he show any signs of conscious awareness.

"I hate sofas," mumbles Sherlock, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Is that an explanation or an excuse?"

"Both."

He starts wriggling, extricating his way out of the covers, until he is lying on his back, looking up at John.

"You know," says Sherlock, "This isn't fair. We split the rent, yet I have worse living conditions."

"You eat my food," notes John in response.

"I pay for it."

"So you're not going to get out of my bed?"

"No."

"Even by force?"

"Do you grudge one good night sleep? I don't do it very often."

"It's my flat, in fact."

"In fact, it's of both of us now."

"You take it too far. If you recall me saying that if you—"

"Yes," Sherlock cuts him short, "The probation month is already over. You haven't thrown me out yet. Means you like me around."

John is exhausted. He's drunk and he wants to just finally drift off. It hasn't happened with him for a long time, both being bladdered and dying for a horizontal resting position.

"If you recall, I let you in only on condition of not being insolent. And here you are."

"If you paid more attention, you'd know I'm being like that from the very first day. Just let it go. I don't occupy a lot of space. I sleep quietly. I won't get in your way."

John teeters on the borderline between wakefulness and slumber. The room is reeling in front of his eyes. He realises that under current circumstances he could barely manage unfolding the sofa, let alone driving Sherlock away from his bed. If he goes to sleep on the sofa just like this, he won't be able to straighten his back tomorrow. He is not Sherlock, who can curl up into an impossible comma.

"Oh, to hell with you," mutters John. "Scooch over. And it's one time pass. Don't get used to it."

John can almost sense Sherlock smirk in the dark as he moves obediently to the other side of the bed. As soon as John's tired body touches the warm surface, he dozes off instantly, the other man forgotten.

# # #

"Sherlock?" calls John, watching his flatmate fight with his computer for a good half an hour.

To be more precise, with another clever security system.

Now John knows that as soon as Sherlock is immersed in whatever he's doing, he loses his self-control; and when John notices his flatmate's eyes going all bleary and lizard-like – the gleam he picked up on at the first day of their acquaintance – he puts his book aside and just watches him with close scrutiny.

His hands go out of control first. At moments when Sherlock doesn't type one of his codes, his fingers start drumming away against the desk surface, or they fiddle with the armrest of his chair; he restlessly touches his shirt, his hair, and the objects lying nearby.

Then Sherlock starts moving his shoulders and fidgeting about. He bites at his lips hard, turns his head around, impulsive, as if searching for a clue hidden somewhere in the surrounding furniture that could help him find a system's weak point. He taps his foot against the floor, impatiently.

If he begins swearing in a vague, ornate manner, it means his unusual mind suffers a defeat, a defeat Sherlock Holmes never completely accepts.

Calmly, John waits for that last critical stage to come, and then he calls out again:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turns his head, abruptly.

"I'm busy."

John leans back on the sofa while saying:

"No, you're not. Right now you're waiting for the results of the data processing, and you're not doing anything. I wanted to ask you something."

Sherlock spins in his chair to face John.

"Hm?"

"Tell me," for a short while John is silent as he looks for the exact wording. "You're a hacker. A criminal."

"I think we've been through that," Sherlock interrupts him, an exasperated note in his voice.

"Just wait a moment," John lifts his hands, trying to stop him talking. "Hear me out, will you?"

With a light grin, Sherlock tilts his head and lets him go on:

"Have you ever been interested in the other side of the equation?

"How do you mean?"

"I mean look at yourself. You have a fine brain, zero social adequacy, you're a perfect geek. Have you never thought that hacking is the easiest, and also more boring, way to go?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything and just pierces him with his intent gaze.

"You should," John continues. "You've chosen the path of least resistance. You fell out of society and took a leap into the criminal world. Soon you'll get bored of breaking, and not creating, Sherlock. You'll run out of systems. You're cracking them all too fast."

"So?"

"So, don't you think that hacking is what a lot of people are able to do? There are all kinds of geeks like that, but those who are able to trace such crimes are few and far between."

Sherlock jerks his head up, nearly springing.

"Are you suggesting that I join—?"

"No, not the police forces. You won't be able to work there, even if you'd like."

"Why are you so sure about that?" asks Sherlock, smirking, as if John has just issued him a challenge.

"You're too smart, that's why," John snorts.

Sherlock is content with this answer.

"So, as I was saying… you're unique. You can identify people, you think out of the box, you have your own methods. Why are you choosing this unpromising work?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, the gesture vague and uncertain.

"I'm interested, for the time being."

"And then?"

"And then we'll see," he says, getting back to the computer screen.

John presses his lips in a tight line. He thinks he's been just shrugged off, although he feels sure he has a fair point.

"Suit yourself," John grumbles, the tone of his voice a bit resentful, as he grabs the book he's been reading. A lightning-like, frantic volley of typing reaches him, followed by a conciliatory sigh:

"I'll give it a thought."

John's mouth curves into a smirk.

He buries himself in the history book again for a while before he feels the sofa sagging under Sherlock's weight as his flatmate sits next to him.

"What brought this on?" asks Sherlock.

"Well, I've been thinking about it."

A chuckle.

"You mean you've been thinking about me?"

John doesn't quite understand what Sherlock is trying to imply. That is, if he's implying anything at all.

"Well, if you want to put it like that."

"Alright then," says Sherlock before getting up and slouching back to his computer.

John is left on the sofa, with a vacant stare into his book, trying to process what that whole thing was about.

# # #

At that day when John is not entirely of sound mind and lets Sherlock stay the night in his bed, he doesn't realise yet that 'one time' is going to turn into 'basically always'.

The next time Sherlock appears on the threshold of his room, the night in full swing, John mentally curses his insomnia and the whole world along with it. He can't sleep. He just can't, even if his exhausted, worn-out body screams for it. His brain simply will not cave in, and as he closes his heavy-lidded eyes shut, it gets even worse. John could read something to not waste time, but he doesn't switch on the lights – the darkness allows him to at least pretend he's sleeping.

"What do you want?" asks John as he notices Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"I've come to sleep," responds his flatmate.

"Wait a second," John props himself up on his elbows, disconcerted. "Last time I checked you had your sofa."

Sherlock's expression set in petulant lines, he pouts at John's remark as though it is just an annoying misunderstanding.

"Been through that. Equal living conditions. You let me sleep here sometimes."

John heaves a long-suffering sigh and turns on the bedside lamp. The conversation doesn't promise to be a short one.

"Look, Sherlock. If you remember my words correctly, I said it was just one time. It is _my_ bed. If you hate the sofa so much, well alright, let's buy you your own bed."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"What if I wash the dishes?"

"Um," says John as he pretends to consider it, "So, you basically want to say that this argument is going to convince me right away that I should let a man sleep in my bed?"

"Oh, I'm serious." Sherlock rolls his eyes upward. "At least about the dishes."

"Oh, come on, now. Be reasonable, will you."

"I am being reasonable – I can't sleep on my own."

"But I saw you sleeping."

"After four days of staying awake."

"Ah." John doesn't really know what to say. "You have insomnia, too."

"Yes."

"How did you sleep at home?"

Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth. It feels like more of a sneer than an actual smile.

"At home I— managed."

"And here?"

"And here I can't."

"And you want—" John's looking for the right wording, "to sleep together?"

"Beside," Sherlock corrects him. "I didn't bother you last time."

"Last time a whole cannonade couldn't bother me," mutters John.

"I need to sleep once in a while. I prefer not to wait until I fall from exhaustion."

John emits a sigh. He knows all too well what insomnia can be like; he knows how overstraining it gets. He knows that he personally gets to sleep a little easier if someone else is in the room with him.

But it's too sudden, too intimate. If they were really good friends, that's one thing. Perhaps in that case they could pretend they're at a summer camp in a room full of children where everyone talks for hours until dawn and no one feels alone.

John spends another minute to think it through. Sherlock's still on the threshold, stepping from one foot to the other. John notices he's not really sure of what he's doing. His arms are crossed against his chest, his lips are pressed up. He's ready to be turned down.

"Dishes, you were saying?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A sigh.

"And I still retain the right to throw you out if you become more of a hindrance?"

"Naturally."

John weighs all pros and cons for the last time.

"I'm going to bring another blanket."

"Thank you," Sherlock's voice sounds grateful indeed.

"It's only because of the dishes," says John.

There's a smile radiating all over Sherlock's face.

"Yes. Right."

# # #

When Sherlock has no work to do, it's quite conspicuous. He gets irritated and inconstant. He shrinks into himself, stays silent for days and plays his violin evening after evening. Sometimes he starts talking about everything that comes into his mind: codes, systems, security protections, or how John spent his day. Although, John always thinks it's simpler to just ask.

This time Sherlock's stage is apathetic, a bit tense.

"Bored," he complains in his usual manner as soon as John steps into the flat.

Sherlock's lying on the sofa, legs thrown over the armrest and laptop buzzing on his stomach.

"Can't help," John answers back. "Go for a walk or something."

"Boring."

It's not the best of John's days. He's had problems in his university, hasn't had enough coffee, and he got rejected by a girl whom he's been trying to ask out. He's less than thrilled about entertaining his bored flatmate.

He's flipping angry, too. And Sherlock's flipping annoying.

"Oh gosh, go break into MI6 security systems for a change if you haven't laid your hands on them yet," snaps John as he leaves the room.

He doesn't notice the gleam of Sherlock's suddenly brightly shining eyes, because if he did, he would've taken his words back at once.

That night Sherlock comes back late, at five in the morning. John is still trying to go to sleep. Putting his glasses on the bed table, Sherlock quietly slips under the covers, searching for the best spot.

John hears him wriggling around for a few minutes, but he's too lazy to even open his eyes. He wants to preserve this feather light feeling of upcoming oblivion.

Sherlock takes another long moment of squirming before settling on his side facing John. The latter feels Sherlock breathing onto his shoulder.

A few minutes pass in silence until the soft waves of slumber start closing in on John.

"Are you sleeping?" asks Sherlock all of a sudden.

His whisper is almost loud in the silence of the room. John opens his eyes, swearing inwardly. The moment is gone and now he's not likely to fall asleep at all.

"I'm not now," he grumbles with a sigh, turning his head to look at Sherlock. "All thanks to you."

Sherlock's gaze is focused on him. It appears he's been staring at him for a long time. John feels uncomfortable under his stare as he asks:

"What do you want?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"Nothing."

John feels annoyed at that.

"I was trying to sleep, you know."

Sherlock's answer sounds like the most natural thing: "You're not sleeping anyway."

"I almost succeeded."

Sherlock doesn't say anything and his silence bears no signs of contrition.

"So, what is it you want?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I am."

Another moment of silence, hanging loose in the air.

"John."

Something odd happens in the next second. Sherlock puts his hand on John's chest. John's breath catches in his throat. Sherlock has never touched him before, not like this.

The gesture is delivered in the most unambiguous manner and is so unlike Sherlock that John's heart skips a beat.

Did he get it right? Did he get it wrong? Did he get it at all?

"Sherlock, you are insane."

"Yes."

"Listen," John's at a loss for words. "I'm not—"

"Neither am I."

Sherlock's hand on his chest is too cold. Ice-cold. John averts his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. The ceiling isn't very helpful.

"Why, then?"

"No reason."

"You're lying again."

"I am."

"Sherlock," says John with an edge to his voice. "Go to sleep. Or I'll go to sleep. Someone, at least."

Sherlock's eyes are still fixed on him.

"Okay." He leans his forehead against John's collarbone and doesn't remove his hand.

Sherlock's breathing is warm and almost imperceptible. His hand is cold.

John stares into the ceiling. He is wide awake now.

The alarm clock will ring in three hours.

# # #

The very same day they have someone sitting in the living room.

After getting back home from his lectures and stepping over the doorstep, John hears a stranger's voice coming from inside. He thinks Sherlock has a client and is about to slip away into his room unnoticed, but the voice calls out his name.

"Mr. Watson? Would you mind sparing us a minute?"

The tone is imperious and almost peremptory. John doesn't understand what the stranger could possibly want from him.

He walks into the living room and sees a man sitting in the armchair. He understands immediately that something has happened. Sherlock's huddled on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chin, his belligerent eyes throwing daggers.

"Hello," says the visitor. "Mycroft Holmes."

He looks like a man of mature years, his luxurious suit standing out a mile; the line of his mouth is haughty, the expression on his face set in sharp lines.

"Wait a moment, Holmes?" John's eyes travel from Sherlock back to Mycroft. "So you are—"

"Yes. My brother," snaps Sherlock with impatience. He's seemingly displeased about the unexpected call.

"Ah." John says in confusion, failing to make head or tail of the whole thing. "Brother. Okay."

"Mr. Watson," Mycroft waves him to sit down. "Join us. I'd like to have a word with you."

"With me?" utters John, taken aback.

"With you two."

John arches an eyebrow questioningly, but then fetches a chair from the kitchen and sits down as he is asked, facing both of them.

"John— If I may address you by your first name," starts Mycroft and goes on without waiting for John's answer, "As you understand, there is a reason behind my visit. I wouldn't be here, if there wasn't an actual need."

"What's the problem?" asks John.

"My dearest brother is the problem." There's a polite smile painted on Mycroft's face, and that's the kind of smile which usually implies someone is going to get into trouble. "I'm not sure if you're aware of it or not, John, but my brother has left home a couple of months ago and decided to live on his own. You understand that our parents and myself are worried about his situation, especially taking into account that he didn't warn anyone before leaving."

"Well, it doesn't concern me," John interrupts him. "It's your family problems."

Shooting a cursory glance in Sherlock's direction, John attempts to figure out what is going on. Sherlock's appearance doesn't give him away. He has a frigid, impenetrable mask on his face and only his eyes glare with a flaming fury.

"Of course," agrees Mycroft. "Hear me out if you would be so kind."

Tipping his head to the side in what he considers a polite fashion, John thinks he wouldn't mind punching this smug grimace off of Sherlock's brother's face.

"So," continues Mycroft, "In view of that event I was preoccupied with my brother's situation and with detecting his whereabouts. Very soon it came to my knowledge that he found himself a flatmate in your person, John. This state of things suits me perfectly – you are a reliable man, who, against all laws of logic, tolerates Sherlock and even befriended him to a certain extent."

"Very flattering," John blurts out, involuntarily.

"You're welcome."

"Where is this going?"

"John, are you aware of what Sherlock does for a living?"

"In broad terms. Rather broad."

"Doesn't it discomfort you?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned."

"Good," Mycroft says with a nod. "Are you aware of what he's been doing yesterday?"

"Not a clue," answers John honestly. "I understand nothing in whatever he does with his computer."

"Shame. Quite a shame," Mycroft shakes his head in a clearly disapproving manner. "Otherwise, you'd know that he broke into the MI6 security data base."

"What?!" It makes John practically jump off his chair as he turns to glare at Sherlock. Sherlock just looks at him, his expression insolent and sullen at the same time.

"As much as it pains me to admit it." Mycroft places his palms together in a very Sherlock kind of way; it's the first thing so far to remind John of the family bond between the two of them. Not the most evident family likeness, but visible enough. "If all his previous exploits were paltry enough for me to let him get away with them, this time it concerns me on a personal level."

"And you are—" John stops mid-sentence, giving him a questioning eyebrow raise.

"I hold a certain position there."

"Right."

"The thing is," Mycroft flings a significant glance at Sherlock, "This time he took it too far. I could make it up to other… organisations, as long as it was harmless, but the break-in of the intelligence service is far graver. He's being looked for. And it won't make me happy to have them discover the family link between us."

John squints his eyes.

"He jeopardised your career, I take it."

"Quite right, John. It is pleasant to know Sherlock doesn't get involved with stupid people."

"Rather dubious compliment, you know."

Mycroft gives him a mocking, scornful look.

"So, what happens now?" asks John.

"It will not take longer than a few days before he's found as well as you, John. MI6 deals shortly with things of this nature – you'll be charged as an accomplice."

The perspective freezes John to the spot.

"What do you suggest?"

"I'm taking Sherlock with me and his computer will be eliminated. I'm transporting my brother to a place where he won't be discovered until the whole incident is over."

"What about me?"

"You, John, have not a lot of options at your disposal. You can't go into hiding as you'll be inevitably found if you act on your own."

"Which means you have something else in store for me?"

"Yes," Mycroft nods. "You're going to disappear from the ordinary life."

"Where exactly are you going with this?"

"Don't worry." He's visibly pleased with the effect he produced along with the fact that his remark made John almost cringe at its ill-omened subtext. "I have a fair proposition for you, John. You're going to join the army as a volunteer and under a different name. With my assistance you'll pass unregistered in order to not leave any traces in the records. For the time being, John Watson will cease to exist."

"And the time being is how long exactly?"

"A few years. Not the longest period of time in exchange for freedom, won't you agree?"

John is up on his feet, alarmed.

"What about my education? I haven't even finished my studies yet!"

"You'll have the chance to finish them as soon as you return. I give you my word."

John is pacing around the living room to and fro. Only now does this most dreadful state of circumstances begin to sink in. He avoids looking at Sherlock.

Mycroft is on his feet as well.

"You have until tomorrow to think it over. In the morning Sherlock must be present at the train station. The ticket," he waves towards the desk, "is right there. Be so kind as to bring him there, John. I'll be in touch. Good luck."

He leaves without another word.

John is still standing in the middle of the living room, an eerie understanding dawning upon him. There is only one way out of this.

# # #

Sherlock finds John at the same spot where they met for the first time – in the park under the linden tree. John just sits there, hugging his knees to the chest, and regrets not having a smoking habit. Now Sherlock is going to determine the whole gamut of his emotions by a mere look in his direction along with what John's been doing during the second half of the day.

That is, if he wants to. John has not the slightest idea what Sherlock wants as he makes himself comfortable next to John, not making any move to light a cigarette. John doesn't ask how Sherlock has located where he is – he must've applied his know-it-all-ness and figured it out. Either that or he used his mobile phone as a radar beacon, having broken into another recondite system.

"I've warned you, you know," John says finally. He's tired of pretending everything is alright. He doesn't even fully realise what he's got himself into, what they've both got themselves into.

"I didn't even know you had a brother," says John. "Much less one in high circles."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything for a while. Every time his silence has a different tinge to it changing from a guilty one to slightly offended. Just when it starts getting boring, Sherlock moves to place his head on John's lap, mumbling a quiet "Sorry." John has no idea what he's sorry for. For hacking into the intelligence service data base? For his brother? For himself?

Maybe for all at once.

John heaves a sigh. Sherlock's quiet "sorry" is astoundingly simple and yet incredibly heartfelt. It's the first time John has ever heard him apologising to anyone.

"What are we going to do?" asks John. The question is, of course, rhetorical. There's not much to do, really.

That evening is their last.

Sherlock looks up, and his eyes make John suppress a shiver. Did he get it right, now?

"Want to go home?" suggests Sherlock, his face serious.

Where else would they go?

"Let's."

They walk into the underground, not even accidentally brushing each other's arms. John watches Sherlock as the latter exposes everyone around them at a feverish speed, starting with two sisters as if soldered one to another with a pair of earphones, and ending up with an elderly Chinese man clad in a suit. Sherlock gives off frenetic vibes, his eyes ablaze. There is so little time left.

They both have gone mad. Definitely.

"Stop that," says John in an undertone, tugging at Sherlock's sleeve. "Calm down."

John thinks he is more persuading himself. His back impossibly rigid against the seat, he is deep in his thoughts while the train rushes through the tunnel. Who will be the first to snap, he wonders. Will it be Sherlock, with his cold eyes and his ardent, mind-boggling head; or John himself?

He thinks about it as they leave the underground.

He thinks about it as he pushes the door open, Sherlock breathing behind.

He thinks about it as they take off their jackets, their faces utterly impassive, and hang them on the hooks in a punctilious manner.

The next moment he doesn't. At all.

# # #

When John sees Sherlock off to the train station, it's raining as if they are in a book of sorts. It irritates the living hell out of John as to why it has to rain when one is seeing someone off. Why it has to bring down the mood even more.

Sherlock is absent-minded. He carries his half-empty bag automatically, looking right through the people who pass him by. He's not even trying to read into their appearances, and John knows it's a bad sign.

# # #

"_You need to pack your things."_

"_No, I don't."_

"_Why?" asks John, confused._

"_I want you to keep them. One day I'll come back for them."_

# # #

They sit opposite each other in the tube as the stations flash by: Stockwell, Elefant & Castle, Monument, Moorgate, Angel. Behind his glasses Sherlock's gaze seems out of focus, staring into the void. John doesn't know what to say.

Their station, King's Cross, is the next.

Lightly touching the ticket in his pocket, Sherlock's trying to come to terms with the inevitable; he has to go away and it has to be for a long time. Not just one month. John, too, knows there's only one thing left for him to do.

They both know it.

Stepping onto the platform, they still don't say anything to each other; they don't know if they even have to say anything at all.

Sherlock's posture has a desperate air to it, his look hesitating. Suddenly, John remembers how cold his hands usually are.

The morning temperature drop makes Sherlock's glasses mist over, and John takes them off.

"Better without," he explains.

"You're lying," says Sherlock.

The corners of John's lips twitching, he shakes his head.

"Not a chance."

A voice from the speakers announces the train departure in five minutes.

"It's yours," says John.

"I know."

"It's going to be okay."

For the first time that day John watches emotions spark in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock offers him a ghost of a smile.

"You're lying again."

"I am," agrees John, and for a fleeting moment he touches Sherlock's cheekbone in a light caress. They seem to have their own method of communicating now. "Go."

John watches him entering the carriage. The windows of the train are misted, and it's hard to make out anything behind them.

It's the earliest train and the platform is deserted. No one gets on the carriage except Sherlock, and John makes out a shadow moving along the corridor until it settles behind the third window. The shadow has a ridiculous hat and curly hair. John hates not being able to discern a thing, and most of all, he regrets not having said a proper goodbye.

In a minute, the train is going to pull out. He doesn't even have a telephone number. He doesn't have an e-mail address. Nothing. Sherlock is being taken away into uncertainty. John is going there on his own.

All of a sudden, there is a circle drawn against the misty glass. It is followed by a point. Then another comes right next to the first. Underneath goes a crescent, its edges tipped down.

Involuntarily, the corners of John's lips tilt upward in a slight curve. A sad smiley face. In Sherlock's language it means "I'll miss you."

The train starts off, and John lifts his hand towards him, knowing that Sherlock watches him at that moment and is going to understand. Unmoving, John doesn't stir, his open palm in the air, until the train clatters fully out of sight.

In John's language it means "Me too."

FIN


End file.
